


sticks and stones may break my bones

by MariaCaterina



Series: i never promised you a rose garden [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Sexist Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 14:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4352345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariaCaterina/pseuds/MariaCaterina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But your childhood mentor is a dickhead. </p><p>Or, you keep a mean old man hidden from gangsters, even though he really doesn't deserve it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sticks and stones may break my bones

**Author's Note:**

> I intended for this to be a one chapter story, but this was what I had finished and I really wanted to get started on this. You can expect a total of two chapters, three at the very most.

Matt unlocks your door awkwardly, feeling for the keyhole with one hand while trying to keep the dead weight from slipping out of his arms. When he finally wrangles the door open he hoists Stick up again and drags him inside. The old man is much heavier than he looks.

Matt kicks the door shut and takes a moment to evaluate his surroundings. The entryway is dark and empty, but just a few feet away your laptop is buzzing sleepily on the desk, lid open. Over that there is the sound of running water in the bathroom, and Matt can hear you harmonizing softly to the radio with a cheerful lack of skill. Despite the circumstances he smiles. Even though he’s told you off for it before, he’s fervently grateful that you are awake tonight. 

After a moment of tense deliberation he drags his old teacher’s body into your bedroom where Pretty Boy, your chubby cat, is lounging disinterestedly. The cat growls a little when Matt shifts his bulk aside to make room for Stick on the bed, but he considers the old man’s body for a moment before sniffing thoughtfully at his bloody forehead. Matt swats him on the rump smartly. “Back off,” he says sternly. Pretty Boy hisses to show his displeasure and leaves the bed, landing on the floor with an audible thump. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Matt recalls with trepidation that your cat has a vindictive streak and likes to express himself primarily through pissing on the belongings of the guilty party.

He scrubs his face with his hands and tiredly makes a mental note to be sure all his belongings are out of harm’s way. 

When he’s finished checking the old man’s injuries he carefully shuts the door to keep the cat out and sinks at last onto your couch. It’s been a long and hard night, and despite his guilt and anxiety, he dozes almost immediately. 

For a few minutes he drifts indecisively between sleeping and wakefulness. Through the haze, he barely registers the sound of the tap shutting off. It isn’t until he hears a door shut with a forceful bang that he sits up. He swings his legs over the side of the couch, but falls, clumsy with exhaustion. When he finally pulls himself up he runs to catch up with you, but he’s not quick enough. 

You, for your part, are thankfully not prone to panicking. When you leave the shower to find an old man lying in your bed, you don’t scream, but rather take a breath and then shut the door sharply, and turn to face Matt, who’s stumbling down the hall, calling your name quietly. 

“Matt,” you say severely, watching his face closely. He is bruised but not bleeding. You hoist the towel higher under your arms and wish you weren’t fresh out of the shower and dripping wet. “There’s a man in my bed. Why is there a man in my bed?” 

“I’m sorry,” he tells you anxiously. He looks exhausted and run ragged. 

“Just—is he dead?"

“What?"

“Please tell me there isn’t a dead guy in my bed right now."

“Jesus, no. He’s hurt, and I couldn’t take him to the hospital. People will be looking for him there. I need him somewhere out of the way, just a place for him to heal up for a few days.” 

“Just a few days?” You say skeptically. “Have you see that guy? You think he can make it out of here alive with someone is out for his ass? Hell, even without someone out for his ass I'd have my doubts. He looks fucking ancient."

“Believe me,” growls Matt, absently rubbing at the top of one shoulder. “Guy can take care of himself.” 

“I’m raising my eyebrows at you now,” you inform him, “To express surprise and incredulity, and now narrowing my eyes to express that, while this is a fascinating conversation and we have much to discuss, I’d prefer to not be naked. I’m now scowling to indicate that if you think I’m going to go in there and fetch my clothes while there’s a strange man unconscious on my bed, you are very mistaken."

Matt, relieved, accepts the hint and goes to grab a t-shirt and sweatpants for you. He checks on Stick briefly, and finds the old man’s pulse is weak but regular.

He sits on the couch while you dress and waits. When you emerge, toweling your hair, you lead him to follow you into the kitchen and settle him at your scrubbed wooden table. You put a kettle on for tea and watch him massage his temples like he’s got the beginnings of a massive headache. Even as thoroughly pissed and irritated as you are, you can’t help but soften a little. 

You lean over the top of his chair to kiss Matt’s neck. Your damp hair brushes his cheek, and his skin prickles. At the last second he turns to catch your mouth in a proper kiss. Matt sniffs you covertly when you pull away; you smell sweetly clean, like soap and fresh towels, and the light, powdery scent of cold cream clings to your skin like a fine mist. 

The clock on the microwave says that it’s just past two in the morning. “Hungry?” You ask, pulling away to investigate the fridge. “I got caught up in my studying and I missed dinner, so I’m starved. There’s…cereal, but no milk, sorry, eggs—oh, wait, that’s just an empty carton. Veggie burgers in the freezer. Hot sauce. Tuna. Oh, and I have some protein shakes."

Matt smiles. “A feast."

“I haven’t been to the store this week, smart ass. Keep it up." You lose patience and slam the fridge door. "Right," you say decisively. "Screw it, I can't deal with this right now." 

You keep a sizable stash of brain food on hand for late-night inspiration and last-minute deadlines. It's stored at the back of your closet in a large cardboard box, containing, among other things, cans of Red Bull, strawberry Twizzlers, value packs of your favorite gum, and butterscotch candies. You rummage for a moment before withdrawing with your prizes: a (slightly) stale package of Oreos and, holy of all holies, a box of off-brand PopTarts.

"Want some?" You ask, shaking the box at Matt.

"Just the tea, thanks.” 

"That's right." You roll your eyes. "You disdain of my peasant's fare." It isn't really fair to tease him--you suspect you'd probably be a lot pickier about what you shoved down your gullet if you're senses were as refined as Matt's. 

“That’s the most disturbing thing I’ve ever heard of," Matt tells you, listening as you rip open the Oreos with your teeth. 

“Hey, the bag was sealed, your Majesty.” You say defensively through a mouth full of plastic. You cradle the cookies protectively to your chest. 

“Not—I don’t mean that specifically, I mean Oreos in general. I can’t believe people eat those things. Do you even know what they’re made of?"

“No, and if you tell me I will fucking kick you, I swear to God.” At that moment the kettle shrilly announces that it's ready. You fill two chipped mugs with hot water. The tea you choose tonight is organic and costly; another concession to Matt's discriminating senses. 

"Alright, spill," you say imperiously, passing the mug to Matt and taking your place opposite him. "Who is this guy and what happened to him? You aren't hurt, are you?"

"No, I'm fine," he murmurs, circling the rim of his cup with his index finger; one of his few nervous habits. "His name is Stick. He’s the one who taught me how to control my heightened perception--"

"The Yoda to your Luke Skywalker?" You say, then, clap a hand over your mouth. "Sorry, sorry. You know I use humor to cope with stressful situations. Don't hold it against me."

Matt drops his head for a moment and your stomach twists anxiously, but when he looks up you can see that he's smiling, trying to school his face to seriousness. “Shh. Don't interrupt. We’re—estranged, I guess. He came to me once before for help, but before that I hadn’t seen him since I was a kid. I found him tonight getting the crap kicked out of him."

“By whom?” You ask calmly, resisting the urge to gnaw at your already ragged cuticles. 

“It’s better you don’t know,” he tells you after a moment, holding up a hand to forestall your indignant protests. “It’s not that I think I can’t trust you. I just—can you blame me, for wanting to keep you away from this?"

Yes, actually, is on the tip of your tongue before you bit down on it. Matt looks miserable enough. You give a slow sigh, scraping at the linoleum tile with one toe. “So what’s wrong with him?” You say instead, briskly. "He’s not bleeding, is he? Because I can’t do stitches, Mattie, I hope you know that. I failed Home Economics."

“And also faint at the sight of blood."

“Like, one time that happened, jeez,” You complain with good humor. “I mean, okay, yeah, but it’s mostly the Home Ec. thing."

“Right.” He drawls at you. “I took him to Claire’s—“ Something in the pit of your stomach twinges and you smother it ruthlessly. “—and she stitched him up. There was a stab wound in the shoulder and a couple slashes across the ribs but they’re bound up pretty well. She had to extract a bullet from the thigh but it missed the femoral—"

“Enough,” you say, laying your cheek against the cool surface of the table and breathing evenly through your nose. “What do I need to know to keep him from dying?"

“Nothing. When he comes to, he’ll be able to clean and care for the wounds himself. And in a few days he’ll be well enough to travel. Just, keep an eye on him until he wakes up, okay?” He stands up suddenly, scrubbing his eyes with the heel of one hand. “I’ll see you soon, okay? Call me if anything changes.” 

“No, not okay. Where are you going?” You stand up too, heart speeding. You already know the answer, though, and you squeeze his hand tightly.

He returns the squeeze. “I need to go find the men who did this, if I can. The sooner they’re out of this city the better.” He doesn’t specify what he means by out of this city, and you have the sense not to ask. He kisses your forehead. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna see you soon. Thank you for this.” For a moment he hesitates in front of the door. Then he turns back to press you firmly against the nearest wall. You grip the back of his neck, holding him even closer as he kisses you thoroughly. 

“Thank you for this.” Matt nuzzles your forehead with his own before catching your chin and pulling it up so that your eyes are fixed on his own sightless ones. “I mean it. Thank you."

“Yeah, okay, but you owe me one, Murdock.” You try to say it with confidence but your voice trembles a little, with fear, yes, but also arousal. You roll your eyes, more than a little exasperated with yourself. 

“Put it on my tab,” he tells you wryly. 

You turn back to the kitchen, but before you can go far you hear Matt calling your name. You turn back, curiously. He’s standing frozen in the doorway with his back to you but his head cocked to follow your movement. “What?” You ask. 

“Do me a favor, please—another one."

“What is it?” 

“He’s—Stick isn’t a nice man. Talk to him as little as possible. Trust me, you’ll be happier for it. And whatever you do, don’t tell him anything about yourself. Don’t tell him anything personal."

The door shuts a moment later, leaving you confused, tired, frustrated, and alone. 

Well—alone except for the stranger in your bed. 

Matt’s tea is still on the table, untouched and grown cold. You rinse the dishes and then retrieve an afghan from the closet. It’s scratchy, but heavy and warm. You curl up with it on the couch, exhausted but too anxious to sleep. Eventually you turn on the television; there’s a marathon showing of some police procedural that you used to be an avid fan of, but have recently lost the stomach for. On a different channel you find a rerun of a reality TV show about decorating cakes. Much better.

You fall asleep just as the sun as beginning to rise.

**Author's Note:**

> The procedural is, in my head, Criminal Minds, and the reality show is, of course, Cake Boss! 
> 
> Some of you may have noticed that I deleted the other part to this series; I felt it was not my best work. If you did like it, don't worry. I'm gonna polish it up and hopefully when I repost it'll be 110% better.
> 
> On a personal note, I'm starting my first year of undergrad in August and I just met my future roomie. Fingers crossed that she's a geek, too! In any case, we both are majoring in political science, so I'm sure we'll have plenty to discuss. Recommendations from veterans on what to pack are welcome.


End file.
